


like clockwork

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, and also the slow burn, can you believe i accidentally deleted this... lol, starts out with pavellan in the first chapter but adoribull is endgame!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 17:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20604242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Time magic is… impractical, only made possible by the thinning of the Veil, but he remembers the sheer exhilaration of countering Gereon’s spell, of taking the Fade in his hands and spinning it backwards.This is something he can do. Something he will do.





	like clockwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! some notes:
> 
> 1\. pavellan is listed, but it's only for the first chapter! adoribull is definitely endgame + the main ship :)   
2\. my dumbass deleted this while trying to get rid of another draft. i'm sorry. 
> 
> thank you!

“Stop,” Dorian says, voice low and rough, pain bleeding over. “Don’t suggest that--”

“Please,” Mahanon says, reaching for him. Green light flares, seeping through the linen wrapped around Mahanon’s hand, but it doesn’t stop him from clasping Dorian’s between his own. “Please, Dorian. Ma vhenan. If anyone can--”

“Gereon Alexius is dead.” Dorian presses his lips together. “The research was burned when Skyhold was attacked.”

“But you are a genius.” Mahanon tugs Dorian closer, eyes bright. “If anyone can do this, it is you. You’ve already done it once.”

Livia is dead. Felix is dead. Gereon is dead. 

The apprentices Livia had taken under her wing are all dead or part of the Venatori, he’s certain. Even if they had managed to escape both death and Corypheus, Dorian doubts they’d be of any use to him. Livia’s research was based on what would happen if time travel occurred - not how to do it - and while Gereon had certainly told her everything, it’s likely her apprentices never heard nor understood the full scope of it.

“Please.” Mahanon tucks Dorian’s hand to his chest, palm sliding across his shoulder to come down and rest at the dip of his back. 

“Have you asked your illustrious advisors what they think about it?” Dorian asks, shutting his eyes. 

“No. Not yet.” 

Leliana will agree. Cullen will agree. If Mahanon presents the suggestion to his inner circle, Dorian can’t picture them disagreeing. Sera would make her unease known and the Iron Bull will make a comment about magic crap, he’s certain, but… 

They wouldn’t oppose the idea.

Dorian pictures the light in Mahanon’s eyes when he had proposed it.  _ Dorian… what if you could travel back through time? What if you could change this? _

_ What if you could turn back time and beat Corypheus? _

“Alright,” Dorian murmurs. There is little for him to do except stick by Mahanon’s side anyhow. “I will do it, amatus. For you.”

Mahanon presses a kiss to his knuckles, his palm, the inside of his wrist. “Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you, vhenan. Thank you.”

Dorian pretends not to notice the tears on Mahanon’s cheeks, and kindly, Mahanon does the same for him. 

The Inquisition’s forces barely fill out half of the fortress. Weisshaupt is large, yes, yet Dorian feels a pang when the soldiers arrive with Cullen and he notices how few there are. His time at Haven was brief, but he tells himself that there were more people than this. There were more fighters than this.

Or, perhaps, they died on the way here.

Dorian pushes those thoughts aside. He has more important things to do than wonder about the Inquisition’s fighting numbers. Mahanon only seems to smile when Dorian talks about the progress he makes - meager, but something - and even then, his enthusiasm for the idea is fading. How long will it be until Mahanon changes his mind? How long until his hope begins to fade?

He scrawls a formula across the parchment. No, Dorian tells himself. This will work. For him, it _will_ work.

The days pass quickly with something to occupy his mind. Mahanon paces and hovers and bounces ideas off the walls, listening to Dorian when he speaks or leaving the room to walk the long halls. Leliana reminds him that he must be seen - that the Inquisition must look and see their Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, a beacon of hope.

It says something that Mahanon has stopped denying the title of Herald. Dorian holds him close at night, Mahanon’s marked hand tucked between them, and staves off the bitter taste in his mouth when Mahanon begins taking meals with Cullen and Leliana. He knew how important Mahanon was, how important he continues to be, and tells himself that he’ll make a point to sit down with Mahanon for the evening meal.

He doesn’t. Mahanon doesn’t comment on it, and neither does he.

When Vivienne and Fiona arrive with barely over fifty mages in tow two months later, Dorian forgets all pretenses and opens his arms to hug the former First Enchanter. What he’s learned about her - Vivienne, who puts on a cold mask - is that she has one of the kindest hearts he has ever seen. Perhaps it is telling, too, that Vivienne only looks at him for a long, long moment before accepting his embrace.

“You look dreadful, my dear.”

“As do we all,” Dorian says. He closes his eyes, recalling what Leliana had said. Sera and Dagna should arrive in two weeks. Iron Bull and his Chargers are days out, according to my scouts. “I have something to show you.”

Vivienne steps back, clasping his forearms. “I will find you later. I cannot let Fiona handle everything by herself.”

He nods. This is Vivienne giving him time to compose himself for whatever bad news she thinks he has to tell her - but Dorian has only the slightest idea of how to ask, will you forgive me for trying to erase this? Can I be forgiven for turning back the clock?

Dorian parts with Vivienne and returns to his work. He has made copies of everything he remembers when he was theorizing with Gereon, of the sparse knowledge the man had imparted before he was killed. Time magic is… impractical, only made possible by the thinning of the Veil, but he remembers the sheer exhilaration of countering Gereon’s spell, of taking the Fade in his hands and spinning it backwards. 

This is something he can do. Something he  _ will  _ do.

Vivienne arrives with a bowl of stew and some bread. When Dorian shows her the diagrams, she examines them with so little commentary that he nearly fidgets like an apprentice.

“What do you think, Vivienne?”

“Who will you be sending back? Yourself, our dear Inquisitor, or someone else?”

He purses his lips. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he quietly admits. 

“It may be easier to cast it when you know who’s being sent back,” Vivienne says. She levels a pointed look at the bowl, and Dorian wordlessly takes a bite. Tasteless, but familiar. “Has the Inquisitor mentioned anything?”

“No. I keep him updated, but...”

“Speak with him tonight. Despite his choices, he is not a mage.”

Dorian nods and asks after the journey to Weisshaupt. Vivienne spares him the nastier details, he’s certain, but she doesn’t gloss over the attacks from the Venatori or the red templars. “We met up with the Bull a week ago, and fortunately, the Chargers have been invaluable during the last leg of the journey.”

“How are they?”

“The Bull seemed fine. The Chargers had a few injuries, but I was able to take care of them. Only having a couple healers to tend to so many people mustn’t be easy.” Vivienne peers at him for a moment before picking up a piece of paper to inspect.

Dorian nods. “Have you heard news of anyone else?”

“No,” Vivienne says, a touch of sadness to her voice. “Leliana and the Inquisitor told me all they could.”

She asks after the theories - a way to help him and out of curiosity, Dorian suspects - and leaves him to hastily write down theories and formulas in her absence. By the time he hits everything down, his hand is cramping and the candles have burned low. He kept the flames bright with a subconscious touch, a habit he formed in his early days, but they dim when he sets down his quill and closes his eyes. 

He dozes off until he hears footsteps in the hallway, muffled by the thick doors. There’s a knock, a tentative, “Vhenan?” and then Mahanon is standing beside him.

Dorian bats a hand towards the candles when he realizes the only light is coming from the dim torches in the hallway. “Amatus,” he rasps, clears his throat. “Amatus. I’m sorry, I lost track of time.”

Mahanon brushes his hand against Dorian’s cheek, nails scratching along his jaw. “I should have come to you earlier.”

“No need,” Dorian says, turning his head to press a kiss against Mahanon’s palm. “Vivienne brought me something to eat.”

The lines of Mahanon’s face ease in increments. “Has your research been going well?”

“It has. Shall I tell you about it in the morning?”

It’s a small thing, but Mahanon smiles. “Please,” he says, dropping his hand to take Dorian’s when he rises from the chair. The walk to their shared quarters is short; Mahanon had wanted somewhere close but not within a stone's throw for Dorian, and Dorian had agreed. It makes it easier to kick off his boots and slide beneath the blanket with Mahanon, exhaustion tugging him into sleep.

Breakfast is a sullen affair. Aside from a few surprised looks at his presence and the odd greeting, Dorian sits down with Mahanon at the smallest table and eats. He listens to what conversations he can hear - a betting pool on who’ll be able to beat so-and-so in the sparring ring, questions about the newly arrived mages, and so forth - and watches Mahanon.

The silver lines of his vallaslin curl around his cheekbones, emphasizing the dark circles beneath his eyes and the weary set of his mouth. Mahanon is tired - no, he’s  _ been  _ tired. The problem isn’t sleep; Dorian often stays awake hours after they retire, and he’s familiar enough with Mahanon’s breathing to know when he wakes. It must be the stress that drives him to look -

“Vhenan,” Mahanon says quietly. “You are doing that thing where you think too hard and give yourself a headache.”

There: lips curling ever so slightly, small creases forming at the corners of his eyes. Mahanon has always been devastatingly handsome, but never more than when he smiles. “I am not,” Dorian says, smoothing his mustache. 

“Hm.” Mahanon takes a sip of water. “What is on your mind?”

“Surely no more than is on yours, amatus,” Dorian says, laying his hand on the table. He ignores the sense of unease as Mahanon links their fingers together, nudging his foot. There’s nothing to fear here - not with the members of the Inquisition, who will be happy to see that their leader has someone to care for him. 

Mahanon’s gaze trails across his face, thumb brushing across the side of his hand. The gesture is soothing enough that he squeezes Mahanon’s hand in return. “Please, Dorian. Tell me what is on your mind.”

“It’s about what I’m,” Dorian begins, pinching his mouth shut. “Researching.”

“Can it wait?” Mahanon’s gaze flicks around the room. 

“Yes.” 

They finish their meals and drop the bowls off, hands still clasped together. It would’ve been enough to make Dorian giddy with happiness and fear years ago, but now, it’s a comfort as they traverse the winding hallways. Mahanon leads them back to the room Dorian has been using as a makeshift workroom and closes the heavy door behind them. 

“Alright,” Dorian says, resisting the urge to make any unnecessary gestures. “I need to know - for the spell, that is… I need to know who you’re sending back so I can adjust the theory behind it correctly.”

Mahanon nods. “Who do you believe should go?”

Leliana. Vivienne. “I… don’t know.” You. “I hadn’t considered it until last night. Truthfully, I thought it better to leave the decision to you.”

“Do you know if you can send multiple people back?” Mahanon asks.

“Possibly,” Dorian says. He curls his hand around his chin. Sending back the inner circle would be beneficial - no need for any singular person to work alone - but even two people would be a good start. “It would be difficult, insert several variables and complicate the theory further, but I could do it.”

Mahanon makes a low noise in the back of his throat. 

“I must ask, too - how far back will they be going?”

“As far back as possible,” Mahanon says. “Before - before Halamshiral. That must be changed.”

Dorian swallows. The guilt Mahanon must carry over a single decision… “Do you wish to discuss it with Leliana? There are plenty of things for me to work on, unrelated to who is going and how far back it’ll be.”

“Yes,” Mahanon says. “Would you come with me?”

“Me?” Dorian puts on his most alluring smile. “I wouldn’t want to distract you, amatus.”

Mahanon rolls his eyes, but doesn’t press. “I will be back soon,” he says, tugging Dorian forward for a chaste kiss before leaving with a half-smile. Dorian lets the look on his face drop when the door shuts, moving around the table to sink into the chair.

Leliana or Vivienne - both are capable, shrewd. Mahanon and Josephine have always trusted them both, albeit in different ways, but change would be inevitable. Mahanon would manage perfectly well on his own. But Dorian thinks of the hardships he’s endured once already and - to inflict it all upon him again?

He sighs. 

Mahanon returns to him with dinner. “I have spoken with Leliana,” he says, waiting as Dorian clears off parts of the table. He stacks the papers and stashed them in the corner, unwilling to allow even the faintest possibility of losing his research. 

When Dorian indicates the table, Mahanon places the bowls down. “What have you decided upon?”

“She thinks it should be you,” Mahanon says. “You know how the magic works. You could cast the spell again if the situation grows too dire--“

Dorian stares at his bowl of stew, stomach flipping. “Pardon?”

“You are the only one who has successfully traveled through time,” Mahanon says. “You are about to do it again.”

“It’s all theory,” Dorian says weakly. “There’s no guarantee that it’ll happen.”

“It is you, vhenan.” Mahanon smiles encouragingly. “You are the smartest person I know. You are the man who saved us from that future in Redcliffe.”

“But,” Dorian says, the words stuttering in his throat, “that doesn’t mean I can simply wiggle my fingers and go back as many times as needed. What if I go back and get killed? What if, for whatever reason, you decide--“

“No.”

Dorian’s teeth click with how forcefully he shuts his mouth.

“No, Dorian. I love you. I will always love you - no matter where you go, no matter what you do.”

It is terribly unappealing for Dorian to begin crying. He tells himself this - do not cry, do not sob, _do not_ \- as his eyes begin to burn and, horribly, a tear slides down his cheek. 

“Vhenan,” Mahanon whispers, rising from his seat to wrap his arms around Dorian’s shoulders. “Nobody can do what you’ve done.”

Dorian digs his nails into Mahanon’s upper arm, his shoulder. The position is awkward, but he presses his face into Mahanon’s chest and sniffles. “Mahanon…”

“I love you,” Mahanon murmurs, smoothing a hand across Dorian’s hair. “Ar lath ma. Always.”

”I cannot leave you.”

“You must. I would not ask you to stay in this wasteland - and I would not ask you to love me again.” 

Dorian goes still, fingers tightening. For a moment, it seems like his heart has begun to crumble like the walls around them.

Mahanon lowers his lips to Dorian’s forehead. “I want you to be loved. If that is not me, then I will be okay, but I refuse to be the end of love for you. I want--”

“Stop,” Dorian rasps, ashamed of how hard it is to get out that single word. “Do _not_\--”

“Tell me that,” Mahanon begins, swallows, and kisses Dorian’s forehead again. “Tell me that you will fall in love again.” When he lets out a quiet sob, Mahanon squeezes his shoulder. “Please. For me.”

“If this is your idea of romance, then I’m afraid I’m not terribly fond of it.”

“But you are fond of me.”

He shuts his eyes. “Regrettably.”

“No regrets. Ar lath ma, vhenan.” 

Dorian lets out a watery sigh. “No regrets. I love you, and I - I will try. I will make an attempt.”

“Thank you,” Mahanon whispers, grip sagging in relief before he tightens his hold on Dorian. “We have each other. We have time.”

_ But how much? _

The Bull’s Chargers arrive with a prisoner. Mahanon sends word to Leliana before coming to stand before the Bull, hands propped on his hips. If he says anything, the words are lost, so Dorian moves closer, sticking to the shade and staying out of the oppressive heat of the Anderfels.

“Good to be here, Boss,” the Bull says to Mahanon, voice carrying. “You look exhausted.”

“As do we all,” Mahanon points out. Dorian can nearly see the exaggerated slant of his brows despite his back being turned. “Would you like to move the…”

“The prisoner? Nah. We can wait for Red.” The corner of the Bull’s mouth quirks. “No doubt she’ll want him put somewhere else.”

The prisoner, Dorian sees now, is a gangly man. His mottled skin is visible through tears in his robes, and even from the distance, shards of red lyrium glint in his face. Prisoners - especially coherent ones - have been an oddity for years.

His gaze drifts over to the Bull. Aside from a mutual nod earlier, they have yet to speak. Dorian has little to say, so he opts to wander over to Mahanon and listen to them talk, ignoring the unease building in his chest. When Leliana finally arrives, Krem and Grim tug on an extra pair of gloves before hauling the prisoner after her. Mahanon touches Dorian’s upper arm for a moment before following. 

They kick up dust in their wake, and by the time it’s settled, Dorian looks back to see Vivienne speaking to the Bull in low murmurs. She presses a gentle hand to his side, mouth tightening when he recoils. Dorian can barely hear her say, “Why didn’t you get this treated?”

The Bull’s hushed response only serves to make her incline her head with a pointed look. Dorian, who suddenly feels as if he’s witnessing a moment he shouldn’t be, makes his way back into the fortress.

He keeps to his workroom that night. Mahanon will arrive sooner or later to pull him to bed, but until then, he can pore over his theories and speculate to his heart’s content.

_ She thinks it should be you. _

When Mahanon arrives, hands scrubbed clean and still smelling of red lyrium, Dorian takes a moment to trace the lines of his vallaslin with his eyes, shining in the candlelight. A headache forms, inconsequential but there, and he shoos Mahanon back to their rooms with promises to be there soon. 

He spends most of the night pacing and writing. The touch of red lyrium - so distant, so far - makes him twitchy. 

“You need to go.”

Dorian startles. He hadn’t even heard the door open -

“Now,” Leliana snaps. “One of my scouts came back with reports of Corypheus’s army--”

“What?”

Her eyes narrow to slits. “It is time for you to go back. That is what you have been working on this entire time, no?”

Dorian presses his lips together. 

Leliana makes a low noise of irritation, standing in front of him in three quick strides and gripping the edge. “The inner circle will be fleeing to Vol Dorma - or what’s left of it. The Inquisitor wants you to cast the spell.”

“It is too soon--”

Leliana fixes him with a pointed look. “You need to go.”

Dorian gives himself a moment to shut his eyes and breathe before he collects his staff. The papers are burned, candles snuffed out, and within moments, Leliana is out of the room. He follows as closely as he dares, counting flights of stairs as they descend lower and lower into the fortress. 

It finally clicks: the prisoner had been a precursor to the attack. Dorian doubts it served as a warning -

She rounds a corner, and in his haste, Dorian nearly slams into her back. “Leliana--”

“Inquisitor.”

“I am sorry,” Mahanon says, gaze on Dorian. “I wanted to--”

Leliana shakes her head. “Be quick.” She moves around Dorian, and as quickly as they had arrived, disappears down the hallway. 

Mahanon wastes no time closing the distance between them and drawing Dorian close. “I love you. I had to see you one final time.”

“I love you, too,” Dorian murmurs, muffled.

“I will always love you,” Mahanon says, the words cracked open and jagged. “Ma vhenan.”

“Amatus.” Dorian pulls out of Mahanon’s grasp to cup his face, thumbs brushing against his cheeks, the silver vallaslin there. “This is to be our… goodbye.”

“It is.” Mahanon pulls him forward for a kiss, teeth clicking together. “I love you. Ar lath ma, ar lath ma. I love you, I love you--”

“Alright,” Dorian says, a touch of wryness to his voice. “I love you, too. I love you.”

Mahanon’s watery smile cracks, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I will miss you. More than anything - I will miss you.”

“Take this,” Dorian murmurs, tugging Mahanon forward for another kiss. He flexes his hands once before yanking off his gloves and sliding off his few remaining rings, shoving them into Mahanon’s pockets. They are the last pieces he has of Tevinter, of his brief stint as a magister, and he would give them to nobody but Mahanon. “Take them.”

“But--”

“Take them. Please.”

“I would have liked you to meet my clan.” Mahanon fumbles for his hands, squeezing them, before stepping to the side. “The cellar is here. I will - I will lock the door.”

Dorian manages a nod, forcing himself to let go of Mahanon. 

When the door closes, he is left in the darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! this is my first attempt at tackling a fic, so thoughts, comments, and constructive criticism are welcome :)


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